The Irish Princess

by Amy J. Fetzer

"So am I, my lord."

  He sank down beside her, cupping her delicate jaw, his thumb rasping over her lovely lips. The glossy look in her eyes nearly destroyed his composure. O'Rourke was mad to turn her away, he thought. "Touch me when you wish, Siobhàn. Call to me and I will come to you." His gaze darkened, smoldering velvet and filled with promise. "Know you by now I would rather be touching you than eating, drinking, sleeping, riding, fighting, building…"

  Her mouth moved lightly over his as she said, "Yer saying you be thinking of getting beneath me skirts a good deal, then?"

  He groaned, his hand sliding under the aforementioned skirt and stroking her bare thighs. "Aye."

  She caught his hand, stopping him. "Think on it a bit longer then. Write," she said, with a wave at the quill and parchment. With a look that was almost childlike in disappointment, he took up the quill. Lying on his stomach, he practiced whilst she hovered over the cloth laden with food, popping piece after piece into her mouth.

  "Worked up an appetite, have you?"

  She looked up sharply, eyed him, her cheeks full as she chewed, then swallowed. "Nay, you did it."

  He grinned, smug and itching to roar, then focused on his writing. They dined, he wrote and Siobhàn fed him the picnic meal, correcting his work, tasting his mouth in reward.

  "We've been gone a bit," she said with a glance at the sky as they gathered the items and wrapped up the uneaten portions.

  "I will simply tell them that you stripped to your bare butt and threw yourself at my feet, begging to be had."

  "Oh!" she gasped, then laughed, shoving the basket at his chest as she mounted the horse. He lashed the basket to the saddle and she waited until he climbed up behind her before wiggling into his groin. He groaned softly, his body responding with amazing swiftness. "Now we will see who'll be doing the beggin', my lord."

  "Sorceress," he said on a grin.

  "Nay, that's Rhiannon."

  He scowled.

  Her brow knitted a touch and she looked surprised. "I thought Driscoll would have told you." His expression said otherwise. "She is not a conjuring one, but a seer. She can … feel things," she said with a shrug. "I advise you not to let her touch you too long, if you be having a secret to keep."

  "I won't."

  Gaelan kissed her suddenly, his arm around her waist, her body tight to his front. His mouth molded, the reminder, his sudden fear of losing her driving him to put all his mastery in the single kiss. Grayfalk shifted beneath them. Siobhàn whimpered, the little sound of eagerness he recognized as she twisted in the saddle, diving her hands beneath his shirt and stroking his warm flesh. She was breathless and panting when he drew back.

  "Oh, my lord," she moaned on a rush of air, sinking into his embrace.

  Gaelan curled her to him, her head resting beneath his chin, her arms around his waist. They rode slowly toward Donegal castle, sated in body, hearts wishing for more and both fearing their past would destroy the feelings budding like spring heather on the moors.

  * * *

  Every head turned, a thousand pairs of eyes watching as the lord and lady of Donegal rode between the gates. Their ease with each other was apparent, and Raymond DeClare folded his arms over his chest and awaited their approach. A maid rushed to take the basket, her expression warring between a frown and a smile. Gaelan swung down, then turned for his wife, and Raymond could not help but notice the look on her face when he let her slide down his body. Gaelan touched her hair lightly, tipped her chin and kissed her, murmuring unheard words. She nodded and, with a lingering stroke to his chest, moved past him. Raymond followed her retreat, the way she kept looking back at Gaelan, smiling, and he did not need any clearer an image.

  "The work is going well, my lord."

  Gaelan dragged his gaze from Siobhàn's sweet behind and glanced at the walls. "'Tis getting dark; cease for the day."

  He nodded. "Did my lord have a good time at the creek?"

  Gaelan slid him a glance. "You've a comment to make, make it, DeClare."

  His gray eyes widened. "Me? Abhor the thought. Although…" Gaelan eyed him, waiting. "The knights are already speculating on the arrival of your first child…"

  "I will wager you will be a father afore me, DeClare."

  Raymond paled.

  "Watch yourself." Bidding to see him at the evening meal, Gaelan headed toward the keep, his steps quick.

  Driscoll moved up beside him, watching Gaelan for a moment. "Think you he's impatient for the day to end so he can be alone with her?"

  Raymond's glaze slid to the side. "You noticed that, eh?"

  "Everyone has. Makes him seem a bit more human, that he sniffs after the princess—her ladyship"—he said with a sour look—"like a panting boar."

  "I think he is falling in love with her."

  Driscoll glanced, his brows high, doubt in the look. He knew the princess better than most and she never gave herself such a luxury. "And you are an expert at love?"

  "I've been in love many times"—he grinned—"though briefly."

  "Aye, as long as it takes to bed a wench. 'Tis five of the dairy maids, last I heard."

  Raymond reddened. "Great Scot."

  "Nay, sir, lovely Irish lasses." He patted his chest dramatically. "Steal a man's heart right out from under him." He chuckled at DeClare's not-me look and strode toward the stables. Raymond looked back at the workers, calling an end to the day and ordering the guards to seal the gates at sundown.

  A figure caught his attention, the setting sun glinting off a cloud of light red hair, and he recognized Rhiannon as she moved across the outer ward toward the chapel, ignoring everyone, her head down. Now that one was cold as the Irish wind, he thought, for although he'd tried to get to know her, she would not bestow even a smile on him. She was beautiful; golden red hair, fresh face and comely as any other. Yet there was something odd about her, a supremacy he could not get beyond, even in casual conversation, and though he would love to see if her lips tasted as glorious as they looked, her recent behavior made him suspicious. She was constantly looking over her shoulder, searching the crowd as if she waited for someone to appear and name her a killer or aught as ridiculous.

  Raymond watched as a figure came forward, cloaked in monk's robes and blocking her path. When Rhiannon tried to step around, the person followed. She stopped, her hand on her hips, her impatience for him to move aside ringing from her slim body. The figure—Raymond could not tell if the body housed breasts or not—stepped closer to her, and yet the sudden fear on her face sent the knight rushing forward.

  "My lady," he called, his hand on his sword.

  Her head snapped around, her eyes flaring wide. "Nay. I am well," she said with a staying hand, then spoke sharply to the intruder before turning about and heading back to the keep.

  Raymond watched her, frowning and when he looked back to the monk, he was gone. He spun, his gaze raking over the area. Damn. There was no place to hide, not that quickly, he thought, looking to the gates. He strode to the tower, calling out and asking after the visitor. The guards reported no one in robes entering or leaving the keep today. Raymond sighed and turned back to his duties, reminding himself to inform Gaelan of his sister-in-law's strange behavior.

  * * *

  Chapter 18

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  Gaelan watched her with her son. Although the boy pouted, she kept up her smiles, her gentle touches to his hair. Connal scarcely looked at him, if not to glare and twice this evening had tried to speak with him, without success. Gaelan wondered how old the child would be before they would find even ground. Impatience for the meal to end, for the moment when he could take his wife abovestairs and make love to her, rode him and he tried to smother it.

  But when she looked at him, he could think of aught but her expression when she touched him, when she took him inside herself, the abandon she gave only to him this day. Beside him, his wife looked regal and poised, the lady she was, but Gaelan knew better, and he was delighted that no other man experien
ced loving her.

  No man living, a voice corrected. His dark thoughts turned to Ian, the man's jealousy dangerous, and now he understood from whence it came. For if Siobhàn were in the Maguire's arms, he would kill again. And enjoy it.

  She turned to him, her brow knitting. "What ails you? You look ready to devour a body whole, husband."

  His features smoothing out, he leaned close to whisper, "I want to devour you."

  Her skin pinkened softly and her hand slid over his. People stared and smiled, but she did not see them. Connal folded his arms and pouted harder, but she had no notice of it. Her heart skipped at the look in his eyes, the memory of their play steaming her skin warmer.

  Rhiannon approached, clearing her throat. Siobhàn turned.

  "I will take him." Her gaze slipped to her brother-in-law. "Be with each other." She inclined her head toward the stairs.

  Gaelan's features tightened. How did she know?

  "Rhiannon," Siobhàn said with a concerned frown, "tell me you did not—"

  "Nay," she said with a smile. "'Tis too obvious to everyone that all has changed." Rhi leaned down, careful not to let Connal hear her. "I am pleased you made this match work, brother, sister," she said, her gaze moving between them. "He will come round soon enough." Her gaze flicked to the child. "As will the others."

  Gaelan's gaze bounced off Connal, then to the folk dining around them. He could easily pick out the Irish who were not pleased with their princess, the damning looks obvious and irritating enough that Gaelan wanted to say something, yet did not know what. Loving Siobhàn's body was his business, private, and to the folk, naught would change. He was the invader, the enemy still, and he'd hoped Siobhàn's acceptance of him in bed would have made some mark toward their allegiance. Apparently, it was not the case, and he hoped they did not rebel against her, for she was his only tight link to gaining their loyalty. None of them would survive in this torn land if even one sought to betray her.

  Gaelan's attention turned to Rhiannon as she lifted Connal in her arms. Connal twisted in her hold, reaching for his mother, and Gaelan nudged her, nodding. Siobhàn rose and carried her son to his chamber herself. The boy smirked, so adultlike, over his shoulder at Gaelan. It had little effect and he recalled a time when he'd been likewise pleased to have the attention of his own father. Saroan PenDragon was a benevolent man, pleased to find he had a son, an heir late in his life, but his treatment only extended to his blood, for Gaelan's brother, by a different father, was ignored. Gaelan had asked him to help Stephan, but … anger threatened his mood and Gaelan swilled back the remnants of his wine and stood, determined not to allow the past to interfere tonight. It would come soon enough.

  He left the dais, ignoring Raymond's smirk and Driscoll's heated looks as he headed toward the stairs. He found her in their darkened chamber near the fire, her body draped in the russet velvet she wore on their wedding night, arms folded over her breasts. Again the bands of silver wrapped her arms, and Gaelan thought she'd never looked more beautiful, more the princess she was.

  As he stepped through the door, she tipped her head to look at him.

  Gaelan frowned, the sadness in her eyes unmistakable. "What ails you, love?"

  Siobhàn drew a breath, exhaling slowly. "My son is growing angrier by the day."

  "Has he done more mischief?"

  "Nay. But I have raised him better, my lord. Someone is feeding this rage."

  Gaelan crossed the chamber, gazing down at her. "Who would do this?"

  She shrugged bare shoulders and his gaze swept her, realizing she was naked and prepared for him. Oh, God. He tried to focus on the conversation.

  "Children mayhaps?" he said.

  "A child will contradict other children, yet youth follows what their elders tell them."

  "Who's judgment would he trust?"

  "Anyone's here, my lord," came sullenly.

  "It hurts you, doesn't it? That your folk could be saying hateful things to Connal."

  "Would it not you?"

  "Nay." Her brows rose a fraction. "I am accustomed to being loathed and called aught but my name." His shoulders moved restlessly. "'Twas the price of my profession."

  "Those who speak so are of little minds, my lord."

  His lips quirked. "You called a few choice slurs afore."

  Her chin tipped a fraction higher, her features tight with memory. "Most of them were truth, PenDragon, at the time, but I apologize if I wounded you."

  "You did." He caught her shoulders. "Only you can, I fear."

  Siobhàn's expression softened with her body, and he pulled her flush against him, his arms sliding around her waist. She gazed up at her husband, her feelings for him growing by the hour. He confessed his heart so easily, a habit she never expected from a man, any man. She opened her arms, letting the velvet pool at her waist, exposing her breasts and loving the way his eyes greedily absorbed her. She never felt more of a woman than in his arms. Her hands slid up around his neck, drawing him down for a kiss. He trembled, and it aroused her more.

  'Twas something special, making such a powerful man quake like this, and she rewarded him with a slow wet kiss, a seduction of patience, lacking the urgency of this afternoon. Though she'd thoroughly enjoyed loving him by the river, this night she would savor ever nuance. Her desires were in control, his pleasure the outcome. Here, she trusted him; here, in his arms, she felt whole, safe and wonderfully complete. Her fingers pushed into his hair at his nape and he groaned, tightening his embrace. He tasted her as if she were a fine dessert, teasing her lips, and when she drew back, she was aching for more of him. She pushed out of his arms and stepped back, smiling devilishly.

  "Strip."

  Gaelan's heart skipped. "An order?"

  "Aye. I want to see all of you." She sank into a nearby chair, wrapped in velvet and watching him with a patience she did not feel.

  Gaelan nearly tore his clothes off, dropping his wide belt to the floor, yanking off his tunic. Her gaze followed every move, and when he stood in naught but braies, the look of anticipation on her face nearly undid him. He peeled the hose down and she shifted in the chair, silently begging him to come to her.

  He didn't.

  The velvet lowered a fraction, exposing her breasts above her nipples.

  Still he remained near the fire.

  Her green gaze marked him like the slash of a blade, stroking over his body, lingering enough at his arousal to make him grow for her.

  Distracted for weeks over this woman, Gaelan wanted to make good his promise to have her begging for him. And by the look on her face, she was not far from it.

  "What do you want, Siobhàn?"

  "You," she said plainly, and his manhood flexed.

  Siobhàn loved it, seeing him straining not to jump on her. She was well prepared to have him, her body slick with desire, her skin dampening. The firelight glowed off his golden skin, the contours of muscle and man shaded and revealed in the flickering light. She let the velvet drop to her waist, her hair webbing her breasts.

  "How much?"

  Her brow furrowed, then smoothed. "Very much."

  "Enough to beg?"

  Her lips curved. "Who will be doing the beggin', my lord?"

  He chuckled, a low sound telling her he would be the last to fold.

  She arched a russet brow, tipping her head back, her hands smoothing over her breasts, enfolding them.

  Gaelan's entire body clenched.

  She closed her eyes, her head back, her body arching off the chair. Russet velvet pooled around her waist, hiding her treasures, one slim leg exposed at the calf. Her fingertips toyed with her nipples. "Do you want me, my lord?"

  "Never doubt that, Siobhàn."

  She looked at him, sinking into the chair, her hand sliding beneath the velvet, between her thighs. She gasped, eyes flaring.

  Gaelan stepped closer, gazing down at her. Her gaze fell on his arousal, and he wrapped himself, watching her twist and toy. She reached, her hands sliding aroun
d the back of his thighs, pulling him near.

  He tilted her face up and her tongue snaked across the tip of him.

  Air hissed in through clenched teeth and he folded to his knees. "You are devious."

  She simply smiled and relaxed back into the chair, her gaze locked with his.

  Gaelan spread the velvet, looking his fill, then leaning out to drag his tongue over her nipple. She shuddered hard, a soft ahh slipping from her lips.

  "More?"

  She had that make-me look he loved.

  His hand slid to her spine, coaxing her to the edge of the chair. He nudged her thighs apart, wedging himself between. He suckled her with a consuming heat, keeping his body from her, his weight. She gripped his shoulders, offering her breasts to his feasting, her delicate pants filling the darkened chamber. His hands smoothed over her thighs, up and down, dipping between, but never touching her womanhood, and she whimpered, impatient, restless.

  "More?" he whispered against the tip of her breast, then drew it deeply into his mouth. His tongue circled and flicked and she bit her lip to keep from crying out, from begging, the game weakening her. Slowly, his fingers curled around her knees, lifting one, then the other to drape her slender limbs over the arms of the chair. He sat back, his gaze savage as it ripped over her. Siobhàn writhed, lavish, abandoned. A dew-kissed offering for his pleasure.

  He buried his face in her belly, the roughness of his beard stimulating already sensitive skin. He nipped at her ribs, the curve of her waist, and she flinched. He nuzzled harder and she jerked, her little laughter escaping into the warm room. He ground his mouth over her hips, the join of her thigh, scenting her. His fingers neared her center, touching all around, and she shifted, excited.

  His hand slid beneath her buttocks, lifting her toward his mouth. Her gaze flew to his, his hot breath fanning her softness. "More?"

  "I surrender."

  "Remember that." He tasted her.

  She shrieked, bowing off the chair, and he drove his tongue deeply, mercilessly. Her breathing, rapid and on the brink of a scream, was the only sound. Gaelan stroked his wife, her climax luxuriously near, and when she flexed deeply, a low groan tumbling from her lips, he pushed two fingers inside her and felt her explosion grip him, claw and steal and when she started to sag into the chair, he began a new assault, circling the bead of her sex.